Excommunicated

If you haven’t been lucky enough to run across the name Carol Lynn Pearson, I would highly suggest you Google her. She is an amazing LDS woman who has written many books on the subject of homosexuality. I subscribe to her newsletters, where she often describes something she calls “synchronicity.” Synchronicity is where seemingly random events in life all converge to form some greater meaning.

As I have read Carol’s experiences with synchronicity, I started looking for such events in my life. Unfortunately, I never found anything that inspired a great story, or even made me feel more connected to the human race or to God – that is, until January 11, 2009.

January 11, 2009 will be a day I will forever remember. It was the day I was excommunicated from the church. As I prepared for the proceedings, I clung to Carol’s book (that I recently purchased), No More Goodbyes. I decided to take it with me, so that if I was asked why I never “attempted” marriage as a possible cure (a question I am constantly asked), I could refer to Carol’s words. I needed them to hear where she told her bishop, “It isn’t that you are asking our gay young men to not marry, but you are asking them to marry me, and you are asking them to marry my daughter.” I think that was, perhaps, the strongest response I have heard to that question to date. I use it often.

But that was not where I noticed the synchronicity. As I was preparing for the court, I found the passage I wanted to mark, and reached for an old piece of paper that I had on my desk, just one that I could use to bookmark the page. I hurriedly shoved in the bookmark, as I needed to seek out some other scriptures and things I wanted to share with my soon-to-be judges.

When I was sitting in the Stake offices, waiting with my sobbing mother, I wondered if I had made the right choice in having the court instead of just removing my records. I wanted these men to hear what I had to say... I wanted to promote understanding and love at all costs. I wasn’t going to be brazen or prideful; I just wanted them to hear my story. But the pain I felt as I watched my mother's body roll with emotion was horrible. I almost changed my mind. I almost got up to leave. I could just tell the stake president to remove my records. I could just draft a letter. Surely my mom didn’t have to experience this. Surely I didn’t either. But then I noticed the little piece of paper sticking out from where I had marked Carol’s conversation with her bishop. I was drawn to it because it had writing on it; something I had not previously seen. I opened the book, and the piece of paper had one word written on it: Learn.

This one word reminded me of every reason I was there that day. I was there to learn from the church and from God. I was there so that the members of the high council would learn from me. I was there so my mother could learn. I was both student and teacher, and both roles were so important.

My mind then immediately applied this word to the meaning of life. This is what we are here to do: Learn. Learn what? Love. Whether it is to love deity or human, this is our task. I am so glad I had that book with me. I’m so glad Carol wrote it. Because of her I had that little piece of paper, and that little word that I needed at that time.

After the excommunication I had a member of the high council run up to me. He informed me he worked for the church in PR, and had been heavily involved in proposition 8. He expressed empathy for my situation, and thanked me for helping all at the table understand a little better the struggle of homosexuality. He promised to be more understanding. He wanted to speak with me more on the subject, and I agreed to let him be my home teacher. I don’t know where our conversations might lead, but somehow, somewhere, I’m sure someone will learn something from it.